Sundays at Tiffany's - James Patterson [26]
The line kept moving, hungry people coming, and I kept dishing out eggs for them, saying “Thank you, please come again,” trying to make everybody feel as welcome as possible.
An old, good-hearted Italian woman from St. Rose’s Parish worked alongside me, pouring orange juice and milk. “Look over there,” she whispered, pointing with her elbow to the middle of the line. “She’s just a girl herself.” I spotted a rail-thin woman, no more than eighteen, if that, with a baby in a worn Snugli. A little boy clung to the woman’s skinny legs. What really set her apart, though, were two black eyes and a soiled bandage twisted around her limp right arm. Stuff like that made my jaw clench and my stomach turn, to think that anyone would get away with hurting someone like that.
When she came to my spot on the line, I told her, “Go sit down. I’ll bring the food over to you and the kids.”
“No, I can manage it.”
“I know you can. Let me help anyway. That’s my job.”
I found a plastic tray and piled it with eggs and rolls. I took two cups and a full can of orange juice. I even grabbed three bananas from the kitchen, where the nuns kept fresh fruit for special occasions or delicate situations.
“Hey, thank you,” the girl said softly when I got to her table and unloaded the food. “You’re a nice white lady.”
Well, I try.
Twenty-eight
FINALLY, THE LAST of the scrambled eggs went onto the paper plate of an elderly woman who had no teeth and wore plastic bags over her hands and her shoes. “Make it through another day,” she kept repeating over and over. It was a little disturbing how deeply I related to that sentiment.
Just before noon, I stepped out into the crisp spring morning of a Spanish Harlem Sunday in New York. My arms hurt and my head ached, but there was something basic and good about feeding people who are hungry. It was beautiful everywhere I looked, everything seemed full of life and promise, which, considering last night’s debacle, seemed like a miracle.
On the steps of the church were five little girls dressed like miniature brides, kids about to make their First Communion. Nearby, serious-faced men drank cervezas and played dominoes on wooden cartons. I inhaled deeply. The smell of fried churros was in the air, and corn on the cob, and chili.
I crossed over to Park Avenue, where the commuter trains come out of the underground tunnel, and where this ragtag Harlem neighborhood eventually turns into the fancy Upper East Side. I kept walking, feeling pretty good now. I was pretty much over last night at the Met.
As I crossed the next street, my own building came into sight, and some jerk began honking his car horn at me.
I turned around and saw that the obnoxious jerk was Hugh.
There he sat, looking bashful and apologetic in a shiny blue Mercedes convertible, his angel’s face sending all rational thought fleeing.
Oh, how our eyes can tell lies to our brains.
Twenty-nine
THE ONLY THING PRETTIER than the navy blue, sun-dappled sports car was the man driving it, and he knew it. Hugh was wearing Italian sunglasses and a light brown leather jacket that looked so soft you immediately wanted to touch it. And to give him a “regular guy” look, a New York Giants cap with the visor bent at the sides, just so.
“Join me for a spin, beautiful.” Delivered in a humorous tone I knew he’d stolen from Mr. Big in Sex and the City.
Hugh and the car made a lovely couple, but I was thinking I could do without either of them. After all, I didn’t care. I really didn’t. Well, I almost didn’t care. Oh, damn it, maybe I cared a little bit.
“I’m supposed to meet my mother for lunch in an hour,” I said coolly. “She’s been a little under the weather lately.” The words floated out without my bidding, but they sounded great.
“I’ll get you back in an hour. You know I wouldn’t dare piss off Vivienne.”
“Hugh, after last night . . . I just can’t —”
“C’mon. Come for a ride. I want to talk to you, Jane. I came all the way up here from the Village.”
“I really don’t know that we have anything to talk about, Hugh,” I said, keeping my voice mild.